


Sunlight

by WahlBuilder



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Fluff, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 15:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Jacob is prone to taking naps at interesting places, and Max is always prepared for that.





	Sunlight

He likes working with windows open (unless it’s one of those days or nights when he can’t focus). London is busy and loud outside, his music hall busy and loud inside. He keeps the door to his office slightly open, too.

His boys and girls are rehearsing A Midsummer Night's Dream, he knows. They have chosen that particular play themselves.

There is no such thing as fate, only cruel accidents—but he does find the coincidence rather amusing.

It doesn’t matter that they won’t be able to stage it properly. No grand opening night, no audience. They are doing it for themselves, because they like it.

He will get the ‘stage plays’ licence one day. If only for his little birds.

He tells himself that he doesn’t want the stage anymore for himself. He has no face for it, no voice.

Charing Cross is as busy as ever. From the outside, he hears ‘God Save The Queen’, and although it’s not his favourite choice, he stops his pen, picking a few voices that, with the right training, could do very well. He likes those people coming to the back entrance of the Alhambra better than those toffs who try to draw his attention with long-winded dialogues about Art by the front entrance.

Movement across the street catches his attention: Natasha changes her pose by the chimneys on the rooftop, hugging her rifle close to her chest.

It’s a sunny day, and she has a small mirror at hand to signal to other Blighters on the surrounding rooftops and to those on the ground. To Max himself.

She’s there not to look for his birdlings, the Assassins. She’s on the look-out for three carriages: one that would be welcome any hour of day and night; two others that would be unwelcome.

He remembers that he’s holding an open pen, and hastens to write.

The pen is a fancy thing, a gift from Lewis made from a piece of the old Alhambra staircase, back when they had rebuilt it in ‘66. Much more useful than quills (‘And you wouldn’t bleed out your fingers with quill-nibs, Mr Roth.’). It is made specifically for his left-handed writing, with a perfect grip for his fingers.

Max listens as the singers finish the song, slowing it down too much. Then writes: _ACT II._

A black bird lands on the windowsill.

‘Too sunny for you, little one?’ Max asks him, starting to jot down notes for the scene.

Rook caws, hopping side to side, then onto his desk, and pecks at his pen.

Max stops. ‘What is it?’ He reaches to stroke Rook’s head, but Rook hops out of his reach. And then looks up.

‘Ah. I understand now. Good bird.’

Rook walks close, puffed up, and Max does pet his head. He puts away his pen and manuscript, then goes over to the settle where a few things are already prepared for just this occasion. He picks them up: a folded blanket in one hand, a stoppered ewer in another together with a paper bag.

Rook lands on the blanket and pecks at the wool.

Max chuckles. ‘You want to carry something, too?’

The bird tilts his head.

Max pins the blanket with his elbow to his side to free his hand, takes a small rose out of the bottle on the desk and gives it to Rook. ‘Such a helpful bird.’

Together, they make their way up through the gallery and onto the roof.

A lone figure is lying supine on the banister, the top hat shielding his face from the sunlight.

If Max hadn’t known Jacob, he would have been worried about the boy falling down (on the balcony below, which would have been unfortunate). Max does know Jacob, and he _has_ seen him fall, once, and doesn’t want to ever see it again. But here, Jacob is safe in many ways.

‘You might get a heat stroke, darling,’ he says, lowering the ewer and bag on the roof, then spreading the blanket over Jacob.

Jacob stirs, and one brown eye gleams at Max from under the top hat. ‘With a woollen blanket over me, I certainly will.’ He sits up, a smile blooming slowly on his face. ‘How do you know I’m here?’

Max wants to kiss that smile, and he does, quick and sweet. It brings colour to Jacob’s cheeks. ‘I always know.’

Jacob looks away, notices Rook and frowns. ‘Traitor.’

Rook, in the middle of pushing the rose under the ribbon on Jacob’s hat, stops his ministrations and caws at him.

Max laughs. ‘I think he’s not amused by your words.’ He swings his legs over the banister. Even though it’s not a very impressive drop, Lewis would have a stroke if he saw him doing this. Funny how watching one’s friend climb the St Stephen’s Tower just _that one time_ might be enough for one’s aversion for heights to develop.

‘I’ve brought you food and wine. You must be tired.’

Something changes in Jacob’s face, something that makes Max wonder about his childhood, his years before London. Then it’s gone, and the paper bag rustles as Jacob digs in. ‘ _Fry’s Cream_?’

So much wonder. He’s so, so terribly easy to spoil. Max wants to give him the whole world. ‘All yours.’

He looks over his city, its voices, noises washing over him. Even here, he thinks he can hear its cries, too.

Roasted chestnuts and half of the chocolate bar are pushed into his hands, and Jacob stretches across his lap, as indifferent to the height as Max himself. Brown eyes made warm by the sunlight, the green rings near the pupils like young leafage. ‘You, too, Max.’

He puts the chestnuts aside, breaks a piece off the bar and holds it to Jacob’s mouth instead. Jacob takes it off his fingers, and only then Max tastes some himself. It melts marvellously on his tongue.

The Fae King feeding a mortal the finest things that his land can offer, to make that mortal stay forever.

‘May I watch the Dream?’ Jacob squirms a little, settling his broad shoulders on Max’s lap. ‘Marietta’s Puck is very good even when she forgets some lines.’

‘You know you may, dear boy.’ Max feeds him another piece of chocolate.

Rook is happily eating away the chestnuts.

‘Maybe after a little sleep,’ Jacob murmurs, closing his eyes. There’s a speck of chocolate on his bottom lip, and Max wipes it off.

The singers on the ground just under them start another song.

**Author's Note:**

> This small story is so tightly-packed with headcanons I'm not even sorry.


End file.
